The Mystery of the Lakeshore Ltd - An Eleanor and Lydia Mystery

Chapter Two

The police station was a four-story block--an ugly gray brick rectangle amid the architectural artwork of the downtown area. Lydia turned her mint-condition hand-me-down 1950 Chevy Skyline Deluxe into the parking lot and docked it in a handicap space near the glass double doors.

"Do you ever wish to go back to a more modern car?" Eleanor asked her. "Sometimes I wonder if I've saddled you with junk from my past when I intended to fill a need for you."

Lydia leaned forward and wrapped her arms around the enormous steering wheel. "Papa had amazing taste. This is the coolest car in the whole entire world, and if anyone ever tries to take it away from me, I will chain myself to this steering wheel, and they'll never get me out because this tank is indestructible."

Eleanor agreed completely.

Her late husband's taste had been exquisite, and he'd cared for that car like it was one of his children from the day he drove it off the lot nearly three quarters of a century earlier. To know someone loved it as much as he had pleased her. After all, the behemoth was doing no good for anyone as long as she left it rotting away in her garage.

"Well, then. Shall we see what we can learn today?" She opened the clasp on her bag, fished out the blue placard that made their use of the space legal, and hung it from the rearview mirror.

Lydia jumped out and ran around the car to Eleanor's door to lend her a hand, and they entered the police station.

The odor of cheap pine cleaner with a lingering hint of a stench that refused to be cleaned away assaulted their noses. Beneath Eleanor's pristine white sneakers, green floor tiles were sticky enough to make dreadful sucking sounds with each step. Shoddy fluorescent lighting lent a sickly, flickering illumination to the grim space. The only artwork consisted of more than a dozen signs bearing warnings or instructions.

No smoking.

City softball league sign-ups were next week.

No weapons.

No bags beyond this point.

Violet's - Call 555-8252 for delivery between 11 am and 8 pm.

Heroine kills.

A young woman with auburn hair in a tight bun sat behind a counter separated from the small entrance area by thick glass smudged with fingerprints. The circles beneath her eyes were so dark they could almost be mistaken for bruises, but when she spoke to them through the little intercom set into the glass, her voice was as lovely and melodic as any Eleanor could remember hearing.

"How may I help you ladies?" Her gaze flicked to Lydia and settled on Eleanor.

"My great-granddaughter's friend has gone missing. We'd like to speak to the investigating detective," Eleanor said. "I believe it's a Detective Bolton."

"What's the name of the missing person?"

"Larisa Johnson."

The girl's attention moved to a computer on the counter. After a few moments of tapping, she nodded. "Have a seat. I don't know if Detective Bolton is in the building right now, but I'll check for you."

They sat side-by-side on black plastic chairs, and Lydia slipped her hand into her great-grandmother's. Eleanor gave it a reassuring squeeze but offered no false promises about everything being all right.

After three minutes that felt like twenty, a heavy metal door to the right of the receptionist's window swung open on squealing hinges, and a gray-haired man in a rumpled brown suit and black running shoes emerged, yellow file folder in hand. "You're looking for information about Larisa Johnson?"